


Grow Wings and Sing

by jacyevans



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: samdean_otp, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacyevans/pseuds/jacyevans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the door to the cage opens, Lucifer possesses Sam, leaving Dean alive and confused in his wake. With the help of Castiel, Bobby, Missouri and a very reluctant Chuck, Dean searches for a way to save his brother that doesn't involve saying yes to Michael, while also trying to make sense of Lucifer's suspiciously unmalicious actions. The fate of the world lies between two brothers in heaven and two on earth, but even a destiny as old as time itself has the capacity to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grow Wings and Sing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the samdean_otp Minibang 2012 @ LJ. Title and lyrics from "Tell Everyone We're Dead" by The Promise Ring.

_Tell everyone to tell everyone we’re dead,  
"Amen, I’m checking out."_

Dean grasps blindly onto Sam's jacket and yanks him away from the bright, all-encompassing light rising through the convent floor. The piercing sound from beyond surges higher and higher, until Dean’s ears ring painfully, and he fumbles for the doors, tripping while Sam resists Dean tugging him away from the danger.

Like he wants to be here when the end comes.

“Damn it, Sam, we have to go,” Dean grunts, yanking on his brother’s shoulders and shoving him towards the exit. 

The doors slam, trapping them inside. Dean pounds against them using all of his weight, fingers scrabbling at the wood, lodging splinters under his fingernails. Sam turns and walks towards the center of the convent, easily pulling out of Dean’s grasp as he attempts to snag at Sam’s jacket. 

Dean watches helplessly as the light surrounds Sam, seeping into every pore from the inside out. Sam glows, bright enough to make Dean flinch and close his eyes, and somehow, Dean _knows,_ the same way he knew Sam was dead that night on the ground outside of Cold Oak before his knees ever hit the ground - that bone deep, resonant instinct, like breathing.

The person that turns to face Dean once the light fades from his eyes isn't Sam. He cocks his head to the side and takes a step forward, movements too fluid, too precise, reminding Dean more of Castiel than his brother.

He stares at Dean for a moment before saying, “Hello, Dean.”

Fruitlessly, Dean whispers, “Sammy.”

Lucifer slowly shakes his head once, with a gentle, pitying look in his eyes. “No, Dean. I’m sorry. Not anymore.”

"Why?" Dean can barely force the word out through the tightness in his throat. He resists the urge to scream, wrap his hands around Lucifer's neck and squeeze, because he can't see past the face he knows better than his own. "Why him?"

Lucifer stares at him again, looking _through_ him, so a chill shudders up Dean’s spine. “You don’t know yet," he whispers, eyes darting across Dean's face.

“Know _what?_ ”

Lucifer’s gaze falls to Dean's amulet. He smiles, grim and full of regret. “You will.”

The words fall from his lips before his brain has a chance to catch up with his vocal chords. “I’m going to kill you,” Dean whispers quietly. “I’m going to get my brother back, and then I am going to kill you.”

Lucifer pauses two steps from the door. He turns slowly towards Dean, eyebrows rising towards his hairline. Any stranger would swear he was calm, the picture of ease, but Dean knows better. The devil may be the one behind the wheel, but he’s driving Sam’s body. The meanings behind every gesture and slight muscle movement are crystal clear, a second language only Dean knows how to speak.

Lucifer’s face darkens, and then suddenly, he’s in front on Dean, pressing him back into the wall. His fingers curl dangerously close to Dean’s throat but never actually choke. Dean bites back a groan as the rough stone digs into his shoulder blades.

“Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep,” Lucifer hisses, holding Dean against the wall for a few more moments before releasing him. 

Dean drops to the ground like a stone. He holds his hand lightly around his neck, while Lucifer stares down at him silently. He shakes his head as he turns towards the double doors, footsteps echoing down the halls of the empty convent. Dean lets him go.

\----

Bobby opens his door with a shotgun aimed directly at Dean’s chest. He stops short at the sight of Dean leaning against the door frame, barely able to hold himself upright.

"Jesus," Bobby breathes, grasping Dean's arm and hauling him inside. "What the hell happened?" He gives Dean a quick once-over, searching for wounds, but he won't find any. The physical pain doesn’t matter, not when his entire world has come crashing down. 

Dean shakes his head, pushing Bobby to the side. "'M fine, Bobby."

"Like hell you're fine. You look like death warmed over."

Dean groans, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. "Thanks, Bobby. I can always count on you for a compliment."

"I ain’t here to boost your ego," Bobby snaps, and Dean’s head starts to throb. "What happened? Where’s Sam?”

Dean doesn't respond. He clenches his hands around the edge of the kitchen table to stop them from shaking.

"Dean - where's your brother?" 

Dean flinches, tensing under Bobby's silent scrutiny. "He’s gone,” Dean says gruffly. He collapses onto one of the kitchen chairs with his head in his hands.

"Gone, like..." Bobby trails off, as if he doesn't want to voice the word they both dread to even consider - _dead._

"Gone like Lucifer's wearing him to prom," Dean says, unable to sit still. He stands again and paces back and forth, floorboards creaking beneath his feet with every step. He hears the cabinet behind his head opening and closing, the clank of glasses against the counter and a bottle opening, but he doesn’t look up until Bobby hands him a tumbler of whiskey.

“Explain. Now,” Bobby says, and Dean downs the entire glass in one swallow.

“Lilith was the last seal,” he says, turning to pour a second glass from the still-open bottle on the counter. “Kill Lilith, free Lucifer, and welcome the end of the world. The angels were never going to stop Sam. They wanted him to set Lucifer loose.”

“And Castiel?”

Dean shrugs, finishing the whiskey in his glass and turning to pour another. “Had a change of heart, I guess. He dragged me to Chuck’s then sent me to the convent alone, stayed behind to hold off the archangel. He’s probably dead.”

He turns, ignoring Bobby's wide-eyed, disbelieving stare in favor of staring out at the clear, dark sky through the windows. The world is ending, damn it. He wants thunder and lightning and blood falling from the sky, anything to distract him the storm rising in his own body, seeping through every inch of skin until his hands shake. He wants to kill something, wants to twist a knife in the devil’s chest and watch him die slow and painful.

He wants his brother back.

The adrenaline fades, leaving him hollow, worn down and worn out as he leans back against the edge of the counter. “We have to get him back,” Dean says quietly.

Bobby grunts, “What?” and Dean finally meets his eyes.

“Sam - we have to get him back. He didn’t say yes.” Dean clings to this frail hope like a lifeline, the only thing keeping him from giving up completely.

Bobby shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Kid, there was a lot going on in that convent. At any point -”

Dean slams his empty glass down on the counter. “Damn it, Bobby, I was watching him the entire time. As soon as the cage opened, he couldn’t look away. I practically carried him to the door.” He shakes his head. “Lucifer, I don’t know, tricked him or something. Maybe the devil is an exception to the angelic rule.” 

Bobby twists his hat back and forth on his head, and Dean’s eyes narrow. 

“Bobby, I’m telling you – _he didn’t say yes.”_

“Yeah, okay, Dean. I hear you. We’ll find a way.” The expression on his face tells Dean otherwise, and he turns his back to Bobby, facing the wall. He pours another full glass of whiskey, finishing the bottle.

Protecting Sam - it’s the only thing he knows how to do, burned into him down to his bones the night the fire burned his entire life to the ground. He gave up his soul for his brother, would do it again if there was more than a snowball’s chance in hell of making a difference. 

A pile of old, musty books drops on the table behind Dean, making him jump. A cloud of dust rises to the ceiling as the books smack against the wood, and he sneezes.

Bobby rolls his eyes. "Don't give me crap about allergies. You dig up corpses for a living. A couple of old books won’t kill you." He grabs the glass from Dean’s hand and shoves a cup of coffee at Dean’s face.

“Start reading,” he says, and Dean takes the offered mug with a sigh. He sits down, chair legs creaking beneath him as he reaches for the book on the top of the pile. 

"What are we looking for, exactly?" Dean glances at the spine and licks his lips. He raises his eyes incredulously. "Bobby, this is a Bible."

"Anything that will tell us how to stop the devil." Dean stares at him warily, already foreseeing the hours of reading ahead of him, and Bobby smirks. "The page is already marked. Start reading."

\----

Several hours, another several rounds of coffee, and numerous carefully turned, yellowed pages later, Dean glares at Bobby across the room. He almost chucks the Bible at his head.

"You find anything?" Bobby asks, looking up from his own book, and Dean scowls, slamming the Bible shut.

"Yeah, bupkis. Nothing but a whole lot of biblical mumbo jumbo we already know. Plagues and fires and six billion walking dead." Dean tosses the book onto the table with a gratifying bang and rubs his hand over his eyes, itching for another bottle of whiskey or a couple of beers, anything to chase away the memories of Lucifer standing over him wearing his brother’s body like a well-tailored suit.

He stands, blindly reaching up to touch the amulet around his neck. He runs his hand through his hair instead, shoving his other hand in his pocket to hide the tremors.

A hand on his shoulder stills him, and Dean turns. "We'll figure out a way to save him, Dean," Bobby murmurs, squeezing his shoulder. His eyes flicker away from Dean’s face to the wall behind Dean’s shoulder, but he nods anyway.

Dean takes to research with renewed vigor, reading every passage mentioning the devil with a careful observation that would put even his father to shame. He flips through several books at a time, frowning down at the words, making a copious number of notes in John's journal resting at his elbow.

Sam would be proud, once the initial shock passed, anyway.

Bobby closes his book with a thump. The sound grabs Dean’s attention, and he catches Bobby clasping his hands on the opposite side of the table out of the corner of his eye. 

Dean looks up, arching an eyebrow in question. “What?”

“Something’s been bothering me about your story. How exactly did you get out of that convent alive?”

Dean shrugs, still not quite sure himself. With both of the Winchesters out of commission, the world would have been Lucifer’s to burn. “No idea. I mean, I thought I was dead the minute Sam turned around and it wasn’t -” He takes a breath, fingers tightening around the edge of the book in his hands. “I threatened him -“

“Of course you did,” Bobby mutters, rolling his eyes.

“- and I was sure he was going to kill me right there. But he let me go.”

Bobby blinks, shock quickly giving way to suspicion. “He let you go.”

“Yeah, just up and left without looking back. Why?”

Bobby shrugs, re-opening his book with more care than absolutely necessary. “Seems sort of fishy, don’t it? The devil just letting you go.”

Dean sighs, grumbling as he returns to his reading. “Jesus, Bobby, it’s like you wanted him to kill me.” 

The words are barely out of his mouth before Bobby leans across the table and slaps him in the back of the head, hard enough that Dean yelps. “Don’t you put words in my mouth, boy. All I’m sayin’ is it seems mighty odd that Lucifer could have killed you without batting an eye and instead he let you go without a scratch.”

“A fact which can be easily remedied," says a familiar voice from behind them, and both Dean and Bobby whip their heads around. Dean automatically reaches for the gun in his waistband, but the weapon would be useless against this particular intruder. 

"Oh, fantastic, the angels are here," Dean mutters, revolver cocked and at the ready, and the familiar position eases some of his nerves.

Zachariah grins smugly, clasping his hands in front of him. "Your brother appears to have allowed Lucifer to escape from his cage. Job well done." He steps forward, smile quickly sliding into that annoying, all-knowing smirk Dean has grown to hate. "Now, it's time to do your part."

"You can take my part and stick it where the sun don’t shine."

"You want to watch that temper with me," Zachariah says, eyes flicking towards Bobby; Dean freezes, blood running cold, but when Bobby doesn't immediately fall over, he releases the breath he was holding.

Zachariah begins circling the room and Dean automatically moves, keeping him directly in his sights. "You know, you could defeat Lucifer rather easily. All you need is Michael's sword. "

"That's a pretty direct statement for one of the heavenly host," Bobby deadpans. "What's the catch?"

Zachariah claps his hands together at his mouth, then points them at Dean, expression growing serious. “You are his sword, Dean.”

Dean almost falls to his knees, screaming to the heavens and begging for an answer as to why – why him, why Sam, why his family? Yet a part of him could see this coming from a mile away, and that keeps him on his feet.

"Find someone else,” he growls. “I’ll pass.”

Zachariah steps so close, he's practically spitting in Dean's face. "You don't have a choice, boy. Get it through that thick, dimwitted skull. The world is coming to an end. Lucifer walks the earth. Do you really think you can stop him by yourself?"

Dean opens his mouth to respond and no doubt get a swift metaphysical kick in the balls for his trouble, but then Zachariah’s eyes widen, fists clenching at his side. Dean hasn’t ever seen the angel so off-balance, and he follows Zachariah’s gaze to the other side of the room, immediately going still.

As Lucifer walks forward, Dean swears the lights grow brighter after a round of crazed flickering. 

Bobby's eyes widen, hands going slack around the edge of the desk. "Sam," he whispers, and Dean doesn’t correct his mistake. Lucifer still hasn’t changed out of Sam’s clothes - the jacket with a torn seam from where Dean yanked too hard, worn jeans and a plaid shirt Sam has worn no less than a hundred times - and the strange sight throws Dean for a loop.

Lucifer’s eyes flick to Bobby for barely a moment before he turns that piercing gaze to Zachariah. “I think you would be surprised by what Dean can do,” he says with a grin, all lips and cold confidence that sends a chill down Dean's spine. Where Sam had a habit of leaning in doorways, ducking his shoulders to make himself look smaller, Lucifer holds himself at full height, filling the room with his presence. He moves with an easy grace that Sam never possessed as he paces around Zachariah, who mirrors Dean's earlier movements, turning to keep Lucifer in his sight. 

"Oh, Zachariah, you haven't changed a bit. Still the same back-stabbing, self-righteous bastard you always were." Lucifer sighs and shakes his head. "No better than the humans, really."

"You would know all about turning your back, wouldn't you, Lucifer?"

Bobby reaches for Dean’s arm and squeezes tightly, the signal clear - _Keep your trap shut._ For once, Dean heeds his advice.

"This isn't what He would want," Lucifer hisses, stalking towards the other angel. The lights in the room begin to flicker, the air stifling and full of raw, unbridled _power._ Dean takes a few shallow breaths and glances over to see Bobby doing the same. 

Zachariah laughs, momentarily forgetting their audience, as if Lucifer's words provide him unending amusement. "How could you possibly have any insight into God's thoughts? You disobeyed."

"I loved our Father more than you could possibly begin to fathom," Lucifer whispers, barely a breath. "He turned His back on me." The words carry the weight of two thousand years of abandonment and resentment, and Dean shakes himself, because _this is not Sam,_ isn’t anyone even close to his brother. He refuses to feel sympathy for the freakin' devil. 

"God is gone, Lucifer," Zachariah says, with all the patience of a squabbling sibling. Dean almost laughs, because that's exactly what this is - a family reunion, in all of its glorious dysfunction. "He isn't coming back."

For a moment, Lucifer's eyes narrow, muscles clenching, and all of the air leeches out of the room with one furious knot of his fist. Then, he exhales, and Dean chokes on a much needed breath. 

Lucifer cocks his head to the side. "You know what that feels like now, don't you Zachariah? You're no better than I am." His smile turns into an all-out grin. 

"I am nothing like you," Zachariah spits out vehemently, stepping straight up to Lucifer, who raises an eyebrow. 

His lips quirk in amusement with the entire situation. "No? Wiping out the entire human race so you can have your paradise. Manipulating and sabotaging at every given moment. That sounds _exactly_ like me."

"Well, at least he's honest," Dean grumbles, and Bobby squeezes his hand even tighter against Dean's arm. Lucifer and Zachariah both turn to look at Dean, one with fond amusement the other with exasperated annoyance.

Zachariah glares and with a gesture of his hand, Dean actually _feels_ his lungs collapsing. Bobby chokes beside him, and he can't breathe no matter how hard he tries to drag air in through his mouth.

"I will teach you respect, you brainless, arrogant son of a -"

Zachariah flies across the room, wood and plaster cracking as his back smashes against the wall, and Dean falls to his knees, dragging precious air through his lungs. He raises his head; through blurry eyes, he watches Lucifer approach Zachariah. He flicks his wrist, sending the other angel sprawling to the ground, mouth stained with blood.

"You will not touch him," Lucifer bites out, quiet and dangerous.

"You would save him," Zachariah says incredulously. "History repeats itself, Lucifer. He will be your demise."

Lucifer snaps his fingers and Zachariah's head snaps to the side, neck cracking, mouth opening wide as his eyes glow white. Dean shuts his eyes, but the light still burns bright behind his closed eyelids.

"Maybe," Lucifer whispers, and Dean pries his eyes open long enough to see him lean down with a wry smile to close Zachariah's eyes. "Probably."

Bobby rises at Dean's side with an arm across his heaving chest when Lucifer appears across the room, pressing two fingers to his forehead. Bobby's eyes roll back in his head and he falls back to the ground, knees hitting the floor heavily.

"Bobby!" Dean shouts, but Lucifer holds a hand to his chest, keeping him back. Dean flinches, biting back a scream as white hot agony flares through his chest, making it impossible to breathe, to think, to do anything but stand there and withstand the force of Lucifer's power beneath his skin.

Lucifer withdraws his hand and Dean drops to the floor, heaving a gasping breath. His ribs ache from the inside out. "What did you do?" Dean pants, pressing his hand to his chest.

"Enochian sigil - I inscribed it onto your ribs. Now, no angel can find you without your consent. Not even me." He follows Dean’s gaze and gestures to Bobby still lying on the floor. "He is merely unconscious. He will awaken when I wish him to."

Dean glares, hand still clasped around his shirt. "I'm supposed to believe that you would help me fly under your own angelic radar?"

Lucifer crouches down in front of Dean and shrugs, far too agile and smooth for such a human gesture. "Believe me or do not believe me - I do not lie, Dean. I have no reason to lie, especially not to you."

"Why?" Dean asks, fighting to hold on to his anger despite the the desperation that seeps into his voice. "Why help me? Shouldn't you be trying to kill me, or didn't you hear - I'm the one that's supposed to kill you."

Lucifer fights back a smirk, eyes wide with affectionate exasperation, and the expression is so familiar, so _Sammy,_ that it knocks the air from Dean's lungs. "You will not kill me, Dean, not while I look so much like Sam." Lucifer sweeps himself to his feet, clasping his hands in front of him - _Lucifer,_ not Sam, and Dean tries to breathe again. "These events, they are... unfortunate."

Dean should keep his mouth shut. With one easy burst of power, Lucifer could wipe him off the map - he _knows,_ but he can't help himself. "Unfortunate that you had to possess my brother? That you have to destroy the world?"

"You still don’t understand, but you will, Dean. I'm still not sure whether or not I should look forward to that day." Lucifer sighs, wistful for a moment before he shakes his head, leaning down to tap a finger to Dean's forehead. 

Dean winces, waiting for the inevitable agony to come with that touch, but the pain never comes. Instead, Bobby groans, and Dean's eyes fly open to an empty room. Lucifer has gone, leaving nothing but a dead angel and the shadow of powerful wings, his words echoing in Dean's ears, and his touch still burning beneath Dean's skin.

\----

Bobby sits up slowly; with one hand pressed to his head, he pushes himself up until his back leans against the side of one of the table legs.

“You okay?” Dean asks, and Bobby takes a deep breath in, wincing and pressing a hand to his side.

“Oh, I’m just peachy.” He groans and leans his head back. “What in the hell happened?”

“Lucifer put the whammy on you.”

“And?” Bobby arches an eyebrow as he attempts to get to his feet, using the table for added support. Dean grabs his arm, helping him to a standing position.

“Inscribed some angelic brand on my ribs.”

“That says what, _I’m the devil’s bitch?_ ” He turns to Dean, eyes narrowed. “Let go of my damn arm, I ain’t your prom date.” 

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn’t move far, though, as Bobby sways before he gets his feet firmly under him.

“He said it means the angels can’t find me,” Dean explains. “Not even him.”

“Lucifer seems awfully fond of you,” Bobby says, and the total lack of sarcasm in the other man’s voice gives Dean pause.

“Your point?”

Bobby shrugs his shoulders, moving more surely now. “I’m just sayin’ that for someone who’s supposed to be the vessel of his mortal enemy, he’s sure gone out of his way to keep you alive.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. He rubs absently at his chest, though the pain has long since faded. For a brief moment, he wonders if maybe the devil has accessed Sam’s memories, if some part of Sam is still alive, conscious of what Lucifer does, and able to influence his actions to some degree.

He shudders, pushing the thought firmly from his mind. “What now?” he asks, focusing on the problem at hand.

Bobby pulls open the door that leads downstairs. “Now, we get some damn shut eye and regroup in the morning.”

The panic room isn’t a permanent solution. The angels could still find Bobby as easily as any other person on the planet, and this is the most obvious place Dean would choose to hide. Despite the extra sigils Dean draws along the walls in chalk and no small amount of blood, they wouldn’t stand a chance against an archangel, never mind the devil himself.

“We can’t hide forever,” Dean says, brushing the chalk off of his hands.

Bobby tears one of the sheets on the edge of the cot into strips, handing one to Dean to press against the cut on his arm. “No, but we won’t be any use burned out either. So lay down and shut up.”

Bobby shoves him down onto the cot, then tosses a bedroll out onto the hard, concrete floor. Dean falls asleep as soon as his back hits the mattress, before he can utter a word of protest.

He opens his eyes moments later - but could just as easily be hours - to the sensation of someone staring at him in the darkness. He squints, allowing his eyes adjust, and finds Castiel standing over him at the foot of the cot.

"Cas," Dean says, rubbing a hand over his face. “How did you get in here?”

Castiel barely blinks. “It is not of consequence.”

"Thought you were dead," Dean says and throws his arm over his eyes. 

Castiel stays still and silent. Dean groans, shifting his arm up and away from his face. "Cas?"

"Lucifer," Castiel says randomly, "His name means _light bringer._ "

Dean startles as Castiel answers the internal question he never dared voice, why the devil brought light instead of taking it away. He doesn't offer up why Dean knows, deep down to his skin and bones, that so long as Lucifer destroys the world, it will end in an explosion of light instead of darkness.

"Who are you?" Dean blurts out, because something has gone very _wrong_ here.

Castiel continues staring and doesn't move except to speak. "I am you, Dean. This is all inside of your head."

"You mean this is a dream."

Castiel frowns. "Not exactly."

Dean rolls his eyes, grumbling, "You know, you make as much sense as Kurt Cobain on an acid trip when I'm awake. You make even less sense while I'm asleep."

"Say yes or do not say yes. The time will come when it will not matter."

Dean stiffens and sits up, staring Castiel in the eyes - still that same emotionless expression he's become so familiar with, and yet... "What are you telling me?" Dean asks, the soles of his feet cold against the concrete floor as he stands.

"You still don’t understand." Castiel smiles, and Dean inhales sharply as the grin morphs into Sam’s face - _Lucifer’s_ face. "You will soon. I promise."

\----

Dean wakes up shaking. He wipes away the sweat beading at his temples and whispers a quiet but fervent, "Fuck," into the silence of the room.

He doesn’t sleep well after that; he spends the rest of the night tossing and turning, snatching sleep for a few minutes at a time before snapping into wakefulness. Eventually, he gives up and tosses his legs over the side of the cot. Bobby sleeps on, snoring quietly, dead to the world.

“Lucky bastard,” Dean grumbles as he makes his way upstairs. He starts a pot of coffee, staring out at the sun only just beginning to rise.

He couldn’t say exactly why this particular dream has disturbed him. Lucifer’s mind games don’t hold a candle to his memories of hell, but something about the entire situation seems familiar, annoyingly so, like a song he can’t stop humming but only remembers the tune of, not the words.

Dean shakes his head, rubbing his hands over his eyes.

“You’re up early.”

Dean glares, silently flipping him off with the hand still wrapped around his mug.

Bobby snorts, reaching around him for the coffee pot. “Yeah, good morning to you too, sunshine.”

A sudden rush of air at his back makes Dean turn, putting him face to face with Castiel. Dean flinches at his close proximity and takes a step back. He places a hand on Castiel’s shoulders, pushing him to arm’s length.

“Dude, how many times do we have to go over this? Personal space.”

“I am sorry,” Castiel says in his usual monotone voice. Dean sighs and pours himself another cup of coffee. He pauses in the middle of a scalding gulp, because not only is Castiel still alive, but with Dean’s fancy new anti-angel tattoos, he couldn’t have known they would still be here, and it was out of character for the angel to guess.

Dean lowers the mug. “How did you know where we were?”

“I received a voice message from Bobby this morning. He said you require my assistance,” Castiel says, blinking. “I was not occupied and therefore saw no reason to further delay my return.”

Dean glances at Bobby, eyebrows raised. “You called him?”

Bobby grunts. “Thought we could use the help, should he still be alive - seeing as he has a direct line to the heavenly host and all.”

“I am still unsure of how much help I can be,” Castiel says, and his face pulls into a grimace. “The garrison is not talking, at least not where I may overhear them.”

“They’re keeping you out of the loop.” Dean narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Why?

Castiel shakes his head with the barest hint of a smile. “I disobeyed, Dean. For an angel, this is simply not done.”

“What, you ask too many questions, you get the shaft?”

“I do not understand that reference, but if you mean that I am cut off from heaven, then yes. There is precedent.”

Dean crosses his arms, uncomfortable with the obvious comparisons between Castiel and Lucifer, despite any attempts by his subconscious to remind him of the same. He scratches idly at his arm, glancing at Castiel with a frown.

"How'd you survive the archangel? When you beamed me to the convent, Chuck's house was falling down." 

"I did not survive," Castiel says, and Dean blinks, confused. "God saved me. And I am going to find Him. But I need your help."

"My help. With finding God." Dean rubs a hand over his mouth, biting back a groan. He's both physically and mentally exhausted. His brother is gone, and there’s little hope of ever getting him back. He just witnessed the beginning of the end of the world, all he wants is some shut-eye, maybe a couple shots of whiskey - leave the bottle, thanks - and Castiel wants to drag him on a goddamn pilgrimage. 

"Cas, no offense - I'm glad you're alive and all but... are you aware that you sound seven kinds of crazy?"

"I am not asking you to come with me, Dean. All I need is your amulet."

"Why?" Dean clutches his hand around his neck immediately, almost offended by the suggestion.

"The amulet will burn hot in God's presence. I need it if I am ever going to find my Father." Dean doesn't let go of the amulet, but he purses his lips, debating. 

Then, Castiel's face falls, his normally icy facade fading into something earnest and desperate. "Dean, please."

Dean sighs and pulls the cord over his head. He stares at the amulet sitting in his palm before handing it over to Castiel, who holds it almost reverently in his hands. Dean waits for him to slip the cord over his head, almost dreads the moment. Instead, he very carefully slips the amulet into his pocket, as if it was made of glass instead of metal.

"Thank you," Castiel says quietly. He stands up straight and unflinching, the familar, ever-obediant soldier. “This is the first place the garrison will look for you. You should consider leaving as well.”

Dean sighs and gestures towards the door, but Castiel has already gone, disappearing in the time he takes to blink.

"Well, now I feel naked," Dean mutters, scratching idly at his breastbone, uncomfortably empty without the heavy weight of the amulet - his only remaining link to his brother - on his chest. 

“You know, he has a point,” Bobby says, glancing at Dean worriedly from the corner of his eye. “We’re sitting ducks here.”

“You have any bright ideas, you’re welcome to share them.” Dean lifts his mug, taking another sip of his coffee.

Bobby grabs the cup out of Dean’s hands, tossing it into the sink. “I ain’t the only brains in this operation, kiddo. You got somethin’ in that giant boulder resting between your shoulders. Use it.”

Dean leans back against the counter, staring down at his shoes. They need to move somewhere protected, more enforced than even the panic room, if such a place even exists. Somewhere angels can’t penetrate.

Or maybe just somewhere they won’t.

Dean bites his lip. The location isn’t optimal, but could work at least for a while. “I know a place,” he says, and Bobby raises his eyebrows.

“You gonna tell me sometime today, or am I going to have to guess?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Chuck - his place is as safe from angels and demons as we’re going to get.”

Bobby considers this for a moment, then he nods. “No one wants to risk getting deep fried by an archangel.”

“That and his visions could give us some clue as to where Lucifer is headed next.”

"Great." Bobby slaps Dean on the shoulder, settling his hand there for a moment before turning away. "Let’s go pay the prophet a visit.”

Dean argues over taking both cars, the Impala and Bobby’s truck, protesting that they’d be safer if they didn’t split up. What he means is, _You’d be safer because the angels aren’t after you,_ but he doesn’t say that aloud, knowing how well Bobby would take the suggestion.

Bobby sees straight through him, of course. “The angels can still find me, even if you’re as invisible to them as you can get.”

“They know I’ll be with you,” Dean argues, and Bobby scoffs.

“Which is why it don’t matter if we split up. Stop trying to coddle me and get in the damn car. Idjit,” he mutters, and Dean grins despite himself.

The smile fades almost as soon as he gets behind the wheel. With nothing else to distract him, his thoughts automatically circle back to Sam and those last few moments in the convent. If Bobby turns out to be right, and Sam did say yes, then there was even less hope of ever getting him back.

Dean clenches his hands on the steering wheel, practically biting a hole through his cheek. He focuses on the pain, a distraction grounding him. Where Sam is concerned, Dean will always find a way.

He opens the windows, blasts the radio as high as it can go, and tries to temporarily drown out the rest of the world.

\----

Chuck slams the door in their faces as soon as he sees who’s on the other side.

Bobby gives Dean a wry smile. “Well, you certainly know how to make an impression.”

Dean glares, pounding on the door with his fist. “Chuck, come on!”

“No!” Chuck shouts from behind the door. “Last time you showed up here, an archangel caved in my roof.”

“Looks okay to me,” Dean growls. “Like you didn’t know we were coming anyway.” When Chuck doesn’t answer right away, Dean exchanges a loaded glance with Bobby and asks, “You did know we were coming, right?”

The locks click, and Dean loses his balance, almost falling flat on his face as Chuck throws the door open. He glances at Dean and Bobby, then behind them, as if he expects someone else to be following. He tugs on Dean’s arm and drags him inside, slamming the door and twisting the multiple locks back into place as soon as Bobby follows.

“Like what you’ve done with the place,” Dean says dryly, because the state of the house reflects its owner. The coffee table and kitchen counter are strewn with empty candy wrappers, congealing cups of coffee, and crumpled sheets of paper. Chuck’s hair stands on end, as if he spent the past two days tugging at the strands incessantly. He’s still wearing the same clothes he had on when Dean dropped in with Castiel, only a little more dirty and a lot more rumpled.

Chuck’s computer, however, is suspiciously absent. Dean finds the monitor under the table it usually sits on with the screen facing the wall. The tower lays on it’s side in the middle of the floor with the power cord pulled out.

He raises his eyebrow, and Chuck starts babbling before he has a chance to voice his questions.

“When you and Cas disappeared, I couldn’t get my brain to turn off. I thought maybe if I ignored the visions, they would go away, but that just gave me a migraine, so I wrote everything down by hand.” Chuck scowls, rubbing at his temples. “You try coming up with alternate endings when you feel like your brain has been shredded by a garbage disposal.”

“There’s an image,” Bobby mutters. Dean picks up a yellow legal pad from the table. The front sheet has been torn off hastily, and Chuck’s scrawl is barely legible, but Dean makes out a few key words - _Lucifer_ and _Zachariah_ among them - that tell Dean two things: one, that the prophet hasn’t lost his touch. And two, that he knows more than he’s letting on.

Dean tosses the pad at Chuck, who juggles it between his hands before catching it between his palms.

“You knew?” Dean says, and Chuck bites his lips, eyes widening guiltily. He backs into the wall as Dean stalks forward. “You knew that Lucifer would possess Sam?”

“I knew it was an option -” Chuck squeaks as Dean shoves him against the wall by his shirt collar.

“What else did you fail to mention?”

“Nothing! I - I swear!”

“Don’t feed me that bullshit.” He tightens his fist dangerously close to Chuck’s windpipe. “Come on, Chuck. What do you know?”

“You really want to threaten the guy with the archangel on his shoulder?” Bobby warns, sounding like he wants nothing more than to throttle Chuck himself. Dean releases Chuck hard enough that his head cracks back against the wall with a low thud.

Chuck closes his eyes and groans. “Once Castiel beamed you out of here, he tried fighting off Raphael on his own. He, uh - he didn’t make it.”

“Cas is alive.”

Chuck gasps, “What - that’s not possible! I was pulling his molars out of my hair!”

“He says that God put him back together. Now he’s on a mission to find the big guy.”

Chuck frowns, still struggling to catch his breath. “Good for him, I guess.”

“So, what, Castiel is alive and everything is back on track?” Dean flicks the pad Chuck continues to twist between his hands.

Chuck winces and mutters, “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Dean scoffs, “Meaning what, instead of Apocalypse Now, we get Armageddon?”

Chuck tugs at his hair in frustration. “I don’t know!” He shoves Dean roughly with his shoulder, walking to the center of the room where there’s no chance of being cornered a second time. “Look, you’re not the only one who’s had a stressful couple of days, okay? My visions aren’t clear. They used to be like really vivid dreams, and now they’re kind of like the morning after being really drunk. I remember blurry images, spots of color, vague impressions of conversations, but that’s all. Nothing concrete. You changed things, Dean, the moment Castiel decided to help you.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how much help I’m actually going to be.”

“Why don’t you start with translating your chicken scratch,” Bobby says, gesturing to the pad now rolled up and clutched between Chuck’s fists.

Chuck sighs and all of the energy seems to leech out of him. He tosses the pad to the table, mutters, “We’re gonna need coffee for this,” and wanders into the kitchen.

\----

Chuck offers them a half empty bottle of whiskey to go with their coffee; Dean takes it gladly, adding a liberal amount to his cup, while Chuck begins to tell them everything he’s seen since the moment Castiel sent Dean to the convent.

He saw Sam kill Lilith, and explains with incredible detail what Dean could only guess at while standing behind the convent doors: Ruby and Lilith egging Sam on, the final burst of power that caused his pulse to ratchet through the roof and his eyes to turn black, the latter being information that Dean could have gone the rest of his life without knowing. He takes a long drink from his coffee mug, fingers clenching around the chipped handle. 

Chuck saw Lucifer possess Sam, but he didn’t see Sam say yes, the most encouraging piece of information Dean has heard in days. He very purposely does not glance at Bobby and the lingering disapproval lurking behind his eyes.

After Lucifer left the convent, Chuck tells them, things started to go blurry. “I saw bits and pieces of Zachariah dropping in on you, then everything sort of went dark. Then you showed up here.”

“And Lucifer?” _And Sam_ being the underlying question Dean doesn’t dare ask.

Chuck shakes his head. “Nothing of any real importance. A glimpse of him alone in a cemetery. He looked like he was waiting for someone.”

When he offers up no further information, Bobby prompts, “Anything else?”

Chuck shrugs, giving them a sheepish and slightly nervous smile. “Like I said - it’s all a blur.”

Dean slumps down in his seat, rubbing a hand over his eyes. All things considered, it’s more than they knew before, but still not a lot to go on. Still nothing that gives them any clue as to how to save Sam and stop the devil.

“So, what the hell do we do now?” he asks.

“I vote get drunk,” Chuck says, and Dean lifts his mug in salute, pours the last bit of whiskey, and downs it in a single, burning gulp.

“Or we could do more research,” Bobby suggests.

There isn’t any ground they haven’t already covered, no ritual or spell that could bail them out this time, and Dean glares, ready to unleash all of his frustration.

Bobby arches an eyebrow, and the anger leeches out of Dean in one quick breath. He sighs, even more exhausted than before. “Where do we start this time?” he grumbles.

\----

Leave it to Bobby to keep spare copies of his books in the trunk of his car. Dean ends up with a thick, leather-covered volume in his lap and a Latin to English dictionary in his hands. Pastor Jim drilled them in basic Latin when they were young, just enough so they could perform an exorcism if necessary without completely massacring the words. Dean hated every second of the lessons. Sam took to them like a fish to water, of course.

Dean slams the dictionary closed, wincing at the loud thump of the pages knocking against each other. Bobby passed out on the couch an hour ago with a book still open in his lap. His cap has fallen off of his head and he lists awkwardly to the left. Chuck is curled up in his easy chair, head tipped back, mouth open on a snore.

Dean chuckles and shakes his head. His body screams with the need to sleep, but he doesn’t want to close his eyes and see Lucifer behind his eyelids. Instead, he pours another cup of coffee and settles back in his seat. 

He shoves the giant book to the side and pulls John’s journal out of his bag - like he hasn’t flipped through it a million times since this whole thing began when Castiel yanked him out of hell, like he doesn’t already know there’s barely any mention of God at all, and no mention of angels beyond a single conversation John shared with Pastor Jim.

_A little faith is never a bad thing,_ Jim said, and like his father, Dean couldn’t help but disagree. _A little faith could be dangerous._

Dean sighs and flips the journal open to the first page. _I went to Missouri and I learned the truth,_ it reads, and he stares as the words take on a whole new level of meaning.

How many times has he read that sentence since they realized Missouri was a person rather than a place? Hundreds, probably thousands, always wondering what Missouri spoke about with his father during that first fateful meeting. Dean always assumed it was a simple conversation, or as simple as any conversation that started with some variation of _monsters are real_ could be.

But Dean remembers John’s insistence that he watch out for Sammy, save his brother or kill him. Maybe his father knew even more than he was letting on.

Dean leans over and elbows Bobby, ducking out of the way as he automatically swings his fist out, practically clipping Dean in the face.

“Watch where you’re swinging that thing,” Dean snaps, and Bobby scowls, tugging his cap back onto his head.

“Maybe you should learn how to wake people up a little quieter. Less pokin’ at my ribs.”

“You’ll get over it,” Dean grumbles, shoving the journal under his nose before he has a chance to comment further. “Read this.”

_“I went to Missouri and I learned the truth.”_ Bobby shrugs. “So?”

“So, what if Missouri gave Dad more information than _Monsters are real and they killed your wife?_ What if she knew something was coming?”

Bobby taps his fingers against his thigh. “If she did, he never mentioned it.” Dean doesn’t bother pointing out that John could keep secrets locked up more tightly than anyone. His father probably took a number of them to the grave.

Bobby frowns down at the open pages of the journal. “She gave me your amulet. Saw her a few weeks before I gave it to Sam. She said it would be a good present for one of you boys.”

“The same amulet that Cas is using to find God.” Dean shakes his head. “That can’t be a coincidence.”

“Hell, you know I don’t believe in coincidence any more than you but...” He glances up, and Dean clenches his teeth, waiting for the rebuttals to come flying out of Bobby’s mouth. Instead, he sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair under his hat. “It’s a long shot.”

“Better a long shot than none at all.”

“You’re grasping at straws, kid.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “You have a better idea? Because I’m open to suggestions.”

Chuck snorts awake then, eyes wide as he glances around the room. His gaze darts to Dean, but he doesn’t relax. “Oh, you’re still here,” he mutters, and he flexes his fingers against the arm of the chair.

“Not for long,” Dean says, “We think we might have a lead.”

“Great, hope that goes well for you.” Chuck curls back up and closes his eyes, yelping as Dean grabs hold of the back of his robe and tugs him to his feet.

“Don’t even think about it,” he says and shoves Chuck towards the stairs. “Get dressed and pack a bag. You’re coming, too.”

The number of excuses Chuck throws at them are limitless - he has to clean the house, fix his computer, and what if they need somewhere safe to run again?

Eventually, Dean silently clenches his hands into fists and Chuck shuts his mouth. He scuttles towards the Impala, muttering under his breath. Dean watches him climb into the passenger seat, and something clenches deep in his chest like Lucifer’s hands clutching his ribs. He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath; when he opens them, he finds Bobby staring at him.

“I’m fine,” Dean mutters, far too quickly to be anything near convincing. 

Bobby huffs, crossing his arms. “Yeah. You’re _fine._ ”

Dean rolls his eyes and rounds the Impala without another word. He’ll be damned if he’s talking about this. This isn’t something Bobby can fix.

The only person that can reach the bit of Sam smothered inside of the devil is Dean.

He slams the car door, startling Chuck, who was just beginning to doze off. Chuck teeters on the edge of a complaint, lips thinned, tightness pulling at the edges of his jaw. His features smooth out slowly, forehead crinkling as he stares at Dean.

“You okay?” he asks, and Dean violently twists the keys in the ignition. 

“I am _fine,_ ” he growls lowly, gunning the engine without waiting to see if Bobby follows. His foot slams down on the pedal so the car peels out onto the road with a deafening screech of tires skidding against asphalt. Chuck slams himself back in his seat, hands fumbling to fasten his seatbelt.

Dean eases off of the gas, and while Chuck slowly unwinds, sighing with relief, Dean tightly clasps a hand in his hair. 

He’s okay. He’s _fine._ He’s so fine he could scream.

\----

Chuck crashes almost as soon as they get onto the highway.

Dean doesn’t take it personally - if he closes his eyes, he could probably sleep for a week, as long as the engine kept purring with the steady, soothing rumble of the road beneath the tires.

The Impala was the only place Sam could sleep after Jess died, and Dean started driving at night, eating up miles on the highway towards nowhere in particular just so Sam could get some desperately needed shut-eye.

Dean clenches his hands on the steering wheel and glances in the rear-view, where Bobby’s truck pulls up directly behind the Impala, easily keeping pace. He swears he can feel Bobby’s eyes boring a hole into the back of his skull.

Chuck lets out a loud snore, and Dean sighs, reaching for the knob of the radio. He’s halfway tempted to turn the volume all the way up, just to watch Chuck startle awake. Instead, he keeps the music at a level just barely audible and settles in for a long drive.

About an hour outside of Kansas, he passes the first sign - _LAWRENCE, 100 MILES._

His skin crawls, stomach twisting into knots, stuck vibrating somewhere between skidding into town, guns blazing, and spinning the car around, flooring it in the opposite direction. 

Chuck wakes up with a groan, clutching his head. He rocks back and forth, cursing under his breath.

Dean welcomes the distraction, however small. “What’d you see?”

“Missouri,” Chuck grunts, and that was definitely no coincidence. “She’s in her kitchen with someone sitting at her counter.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know. I think it’s Castiel, but I couldn’t really see his face. It’s definitely an angel.”

At Dean’s questioning stare, he clarifies, “Angels and demons just... look different. Kind of shimmery and blurry around the edges.” He shakes his head, then winces, pressing his fingers to his temples. “Even I know that doesn’t make sense. I’m not explaining it right.”

“Angel, Missouri, kitchen - not much else to explain.” He presses his foot to the gas pedal, willing his baby to go faster.

The first thing Bobby says, as soon as they pull up in Missouri’s driveway and Dean gets out of the car, is, “It’s quiet.”

“Too quiet,” Dean adds, and the words would be cliché if they weren’t true. Missouri’s street is completely silent and eerily empty. There isn’t a cloud in the clear, blue sky; even the air is perfectly still.

The hair on the back of Dean’s neck stands on end, nerves jangling while he checks the gun at his hip, then moves to pick the lock on the front door. It opens as soon as Dean puts his hand on the knob. He glances back at Bobby, who shrugs.

“Maybe she isn’t home,” Chuck whispers, and Dean straightens up with a glare. He gestures to the doorway with his gun and Chuck shakes his head wildly. Dean rolls his eyes, moving into the house, confident that Bobby will drag Chuck inside if necessary.

Dean glances from one side of the hall to the other, eyes peeled for any sign of struggle, but nothing seems out of place - no pictures knocked off of the walls or furniture shoved out of the way. The floorboards creak just slightly under his feet, a breeze blows the curtains against the windows.

Everything seems... normal. Strange and creepy, but normal.

“I told you she wasn't home.” Chuck’s whisper might as well be a scream for all that he actually keeps his voice down. Dean clenches his teeth, pushing open the door to the kitchen - 

Where Castiel sits at the counter, drinking something from a small, porcelain cup.

This sight, more than anything else, brings Dean up short. “Cas, what are you... Is that tea?”

“Darjeeling,” Missouri says, walking over to the stove, where a kettle has noisily begun to boil. “It’s good for the soul.”

Castiel squints into the bottom of his cup, staring at the tea leaves as if they hold all of the secrets of the universe. “I do not possess a soul to aid.”

Missouri rolls her eyes. “Honestly, honey, it’s a figure of speech.” She turns to Dean and Bobby, who still stand in the doorway, too stunned at this unexpected sight to move into the room. Chuck cowers behind them, as if waiting for lightning to strike.

She gestures them forwards. “Well come on, there’s plenty here for everybody. Dean Winchester, you scuff up my floors and you’ll be on your knees cleaning them.”

Dean glances down at his feet, where a single black line has appeared on the shiny, white tile. He rubs the toe of his boot against the floor until it disappears, then moves towards the counter where three extra cups have already been set out. Chuck chokes on a scalding gulp.

Dean doesn’t offer his tea a glance. He turns to Castiel and crosses his arms. "I thought you said you were using my amulet to find God."

"I was,” he says solemnly. He glances from his cup to Missouri, cutting his eyes away so quickly, Dean almost misses the exchange entirely. 

Dean arches an eyebrow. “Was?”

Castiel brings the cup to his lips, then mulls over his sip for a moment before placing the cup back on the counter. “I still do not understand how tea can help the soul, but it is quite delicious.”

It’s pure hysteria, the stress of the past few days finally catching up to Dean so he can’t help himself - he bursts out laughing, gripping the edge of the counter to keep from falling over. Chuck stares at him as if he’s lost his mind. He probably has.

The corners of Castiel’s lips turn down in disapproval. “I do not see how this is funny, Dean.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Dean wipes his eyes, still chuckling.

Missouri leans back against the counter with a hand on her hip. “You through?” she asks, and Dean’s laughter slowly dies. “This isn’t a social call, so let’s not bother with niceties. You want to know how much I told your daddy about what’s coming.”

Dean swallows past the instinctive curt response, settling for silence and a firm nod of his head.

“When John came to see me the first time, he had you and Sam in his arms, juggling the two of you in one hand and his quest for answers in the other.”

“I don’t remember that,” he says quietly, and Missouri answers with a fond smile.

“You were just a child, Dean. A scared, tired child who missed his momma. You spent the entire night wrapped around Sam on the floor right there. Keeping him safe.” Dean follows her pointed finger to a corner in the living room, and he stares at the carpet, willing the memories of that night to come back to him. He remembers holding Sam in his arms, the heat from the flames of the fire burning their home, smoke thick enough to choke him even from the front lawn. He can still feel the weight of Sam’s head against the crook of his elbow, remembers the fear rolling through him, pushed down by the need to protect his little brother at all costs.

He only realizes he’s shaking when Missouri places a steadying hand on his shoulder. He stares up into her face, completely incapable of continuing to shove back the terror that’s been zipping through his veins since that night at the convent.

“We’re going to get your brother back,” she says quietly, and Dean takes a deep breath, letting Missouri’s words settle across his mind. They’re the same words he’s been saying to himself over and over again for days, but this is the first time he fully believes them.

\----

“I couldn’t give your father any specifics,” Missouri says, once they’re settled in around the coffee table in her living room. Castiel hovers in the doorway, while Bobby lounges against the wall with his arms crossed. Dean cups a beer in his palms, and the condensation drips down the bottle onto his fingers before he takes a sip. “He came to me for answers, and I had few to offer.”

“What _did_ you tell him then?”

“That Mary dying wasn’t an accident.” Her eyes meet Dean’s across the table, but he can't hold her gaze. He stares down at his hands instead. “Events were set into motion that night I hoped would never come to pass. Azazel finding your brother, Jessica dying, Sam leaving his normal life to return to hunting... everything is connected.”

Bobby breaks the uneasy silence. “What I want to know is why Sam is at the center of all of this. Why hasn’t Michael popped down for a visit if Dean is supposed to be his _receptacle?_ ”

“Vessel,” Chuck corrects him. Bobby glares, and Missouri bites back a smirk. Chuck sinks down in his seat, muttering into his tea cup.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he mutters. “Either way, it ain’t happening. Even if Sam did say yes -”

“Sam didn’t say yes, Dean,” Castiel says quietly, and all of the air leeches out of the room, so quietly Dean could hear the proverbial pin drop.

“What the hell are you on about?” Dean’s glad Bobby asks the question, because he couldn’t find the breath to if he tried.

“Lucifer has no reason to ask permission,” Castiel answers, and Dean barely bites back the urge to pump his fist in triumph.

“What did I tell you?” he crows, turning to Bobby, who rolls his eyes. “So I was right?”

“Don’t let it go to your already inflated head,” Bobby mutters.

“In theory,” Missouri says. Dean’s smile immediately drops. His eyes narrow when she doesn't elaborate. He places his bottle on the table carefully, overly so, when she doesn't elaborate. 

“Why do I get the feeling you aren’t telling me everything?”

Missouri exchanges a loaded glance with Castiel. She nods, and he turns to face Dean.

"Say yes or do not say yes. The time will come when it will not matter."

Dean stills at the familiar words and swallows hard, knowing that this moment will somehow change the very foundation of his world. His heart races, blood pumping with a rush of adrenaline he can no longer keep at bay. "What are you saying, Cas?"

Castiel takes a step forward, then stops. This pause, however slight, worries Dean the most, because Castiel will not speak with his usual candor. He mulls over his words, deciding what to say, how best to cushion the inevitable blow.

"Your brother was not possessed by Lucifer,” Castiel says roughly, “He _is_ Lucifer. You are not going to be Michael's vessel - you _are_ Michael."

\----

The world stops. Dean’s entire universe shifts on it’s axis, leaving him scrambling to hang on. He’s been walking a tightrope without a net since the convent, and his stomach swoops like his feet have been kicked from under him. He can’t breathe, can’t even think.

Dean glances up - at Castiel and the look of absolute contrition on his face, at Chuck, wide-eyed and staring at Dean with something like awe, and he lashes out. Anger is safe, and the only thing he’ll let himself feel. 

“You knew,” he says, standing and stalking across the room towards Chuck. “All this time you knew this would happen, and you never said a damn thing.”

Chuck jumps up, holding his hands in front of him, warding off the attack. “Dude, this is something even I could never have seen coming,” he says. He leans around Dean, expression still shell-shocked as he asks Castiel, “Seriously? He’s seriously Michael?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, repentant, and Dean automatically shifts his attention.

“How long have you known?” he asks quietly. 

Castiel twirls the amulet around his fingers in the pocket of his trenchcoat; the gesture is almost… anxious. “Since I brought you back from hell. The moment I touched your soul, I knew.”

Something inside of Dean snaps, something dangerous and intense and absolutely lethal. He pins Castiel to the wall with a hand around the angel’s throat, slamming him back hard enough that a shower of plaster dust rains down. That isn’t the surprising part - no, that would be the fact that he has Castiel, angel of the fucking Lord, pinned against the wall with a hand at his throat, and Castiel doesn’t even lift a single finger to stop him.

His voice is strained, and Dean barely hears him over Bobby’s protests. “Dean, if I could have-”

“You could have!” Dean shouts, not allowing him to finish. “At any time, you could have told us the truth! Instead, you led us right into the goddamned apocalypse with open arms.”

The shift in Castiel’s demeanor is subtle enough that Dean wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t standing so close. He still isn’t fast enough to stop Castiel from flipping their positions, forearm resting against Dean’s throat, threatening to choke. “I turned my back on the garrison for you,” Castiel hisses with barely restrained rage. “I gave up everything to help fix my mistakes. You are not without guilt, either.”

“Stand down, Castiel,” Missouri says quietly, not a request but a clear order. Castiel immediately takes a step back, anger still simmering beneath the surface. 

She turns to Dean and says, “You too,” but Dean doesn’t; every fiber of his being screams at him to _obey_ , but he has no idea why, and it’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Dean,” Bobby murmurs, and Dean looks at him, then shoves away from the wall with a growl, folding back into his seat.

“Of course. Him you listen to.” Missouri sighs, but there’s no heat to the words, just a bitter sense of resignation.

“ _He_ hasn’t lied to me,” Dean points out petulantly.

“Now you sound like your brother.” An odd inflection seeps into her voice, something that sounds a lot like regret.

“Leave Sam out of this. I don’t care who we were or how well you knew my father, but you don’t know a damn thing about me and my brother.” Dean rises from his seat, pent up energy still jangling across his nerves as he paces back and forth. “So, say I buy this little theory of yours. Was this always the plan? Jump start the apocalypse by letting Lucifer out of the pit?”

“It is a fact, not a theory,” Castiel says, but at a withering stare from Missouri, he takes another step backwards, pressing his lips together.

“Lucifer was never in hell,”Missouri explains, quiet but firm. “Michael hid his brother's grace behind the seals, but sent Lucifer to earth, to be reborn over and over. It was the ultimate punishment - to live among those he believed were inferior, to never know his true Father, to never return to heaven.”

“Let the punishment fit the crime,” Bobby mutters, and Missouri nods.

“Exactly. Now, how Azazel managed to track him down after thousands of years is anyone’s guess, but Michael’s plan was supposed to be fool-proof.”

“Not so much,” Chuck grumbles, and he ducks down when all eyes turn to him. 

“Not so much,” Missouri agrees. “Bleeding into Sam’s mouth was just step one of many.”

"What about all of the other psychic kids? His army?" Dean grasps desperately at straws and watches them slip easily through his fingers.

"His army was subterfuge. A diversion." Castiel's face melts into something that looks horrifically like pity. "Sam was always supposed to die, Dean. You were always supposed to give up your soul."

_"And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. As he breaks, so shall it break,"_ Dean whispers as Alastair's words come back to him in a flood. The undercurrent of true understanding is terrifying.

"Who else did you think could break the first seal?" Castiel whispers reverently. "Who else did you think could break the last? Only you. Only Sam."

“You’re the only one who can stop him now, Dean,” Missouri says quietly. She says the words like they cause her pain, and Dean wants to blame her, but this isn’t her fault; she doesn’t want this any more than he does. “You’re the only one he’ll listen to.” 

Dean scoffs because Lucifer would no more listen to him than Dean would God if the big man walked through the door right now. “And if he doesn't?” he asks.

“He _will,_ ” Missouri insists.

But Dean is nothing if not persistent. _“And if he doesn't?”_

Missouri chuckles, shaking her head. “Do you want to know how I knew Sam would give you that amulet?”

“Because you’re psychic?” Dean bites out.

"Because that boy hasn't changed - he can hold a grudge over his father's head for thousands of years, but forgive his brother his trespasses in under a microsecond." Dean blinks because hell if that doesn't sound like Sam to a T. She smiles warmly. "Your names may have changed, Dean, but your story remains the same."

Dean shakes his head, because that couldn’t be further from the truth. He is not Michael and Sam is not Lucifer. He is Dean and Sam is Sam, brothers, not angels.

_Michael and Lucifer were brothers, once,_ a traitorous voice at the back of his mind whispers, and he tamps it back down, swiping a hand over his eyes. 

“I need to get some air,” he mutters. He grabs his beer off of the table, walking through the kitchen and out the back door.

In the harsh light of day, reality sets in like a swift kick to the stomach with steel-toed boots, and Dean's breath catches in his throat, chest tightening so roughly, his head spins. Despite Missouri's assurances, there’s only one way this can end. Sam isn’t present in his body, not anymore, just a vengeful angel bent on destroying the world.

_Save Sam or kill him_. This time, Dean hasn't even been granted the choice.

He’s going to kill his brother. _He’s going to kill his brother._

Dean retches, doubling over with his hands on his knees until there’s nothing left in his stomach but acid. He holds onto the railing as he stands, swiping a shaking hand over his mouth, surprised to find the bottle of beer still clutched in his fist. He washes out the bitter taste in his mouth with the slightly less bitter taste of alcohol, relishing the burn in his throat.

\----

Dean sits on the steps, staring blankly out at the horizon long after his beer warms and the sky turns dark. When the door opens at his back, somehow, he knows it’s Castiel.

Castiel's footsteps are almost silent as he approaches. He stands against the railing just out of Dean’s field of vision, and Dean lets the silence carry on until the words fall from his mouth of their own accord.

“I always wanted to believe it was just a coincidence,” he whispers. “You know - me and Sam being the chosen vessels. No matter how many times the angels said that this was our destiny, I really thought things could be different.” He huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “It was all leading up to this. The entire time.”

“It was never a coincidence, Dean,” Castiel says quietly. “You and Sam were born for this.”

Dean’s head snaps up, and he cranes his neck to meet Castiel’s gaze. He isn’t comfortable with the sensation of being looked down on, but he stays seated, unsure he has the strength required to rise to his feet. “For what? To fight in your war? To fight each other? What was the point of us growing up human if in the end, we were going to kill each other anyway?”

The door opens a second time, and as Bobby steps out, Castiel sighs, turning away from Dean. 

“Talk to him,” he murmurs, placing something in Bobby’s palm. Bobby glances down at his hand, then closes his fingers into a fist. He waits for Castiel to disappear inside before walking towards Dean.

“If you’re done with your pity party, allow an old man his perspective.” Bobby sits down beside Dean with a grunt, one hand resting on the leg he stretches out in front of him. “I don’t know nothin’ about destiny. What I do know are you and Sam... you’re brothers. Family. Regardless of who you might have been, this is who you are _now._ And apocalypse or no, that isn’t going to change.”

Dean bites his lip and drops his bottle to the stair below him. Beer spills into the dry dust as it topples over. “I can’t kill him, Bobby,” he whispers. 

Bobby squeezes his shoulder and Dean glances up, finally meeting his eye. “Then don’t. You and Sam have been defying the odds for years, Dean. Why stop now?”

Dean arches an eyebrow. “Because Lucifer will destroy the world if I don’t?”

“Maybe. Or maybe there’s just enough of Sam left inside of the devil that his older brother can knock some sense into his thick skull. But that’s just my opinion.” Dean blinks and Bobby reaches for his hand, placing the amulet in his open palm. 

Dean stares down at the amulet and Bobby stands, wincing and muttering about his knees. He pats Dean on the shoulder and ambles back into the house.

Dean sits on the porch until the sun rises. He watches the sky change from black to midnight blue, until shades of red and orange blaze across the horizon. He twists the amulet around in his palms, pressing the cool metal between his fingertips.

He takes a deep breath.

He doesn’t have to destroy the amulet. This isn't like Anna and the vial containing her stolen grace. He simply closes his eyes and takes back what’s his.

Memories flow through his mind, like a flood of water over the top of a dam, images and voices spanning hundreds of lifetimes - God, the garrison, and Lucifer, always, _always_ Lucifer - until only a single memory remains.

After the battle, after The Fall, God gives Michael one last order: banish Lucifer to earth and destroy his grace so he may never return to Heaven, a prodigal child left to wander forever on his own, reborn again and again amongst those he despises.

Michael does the unthinkable - he disobeys.

He banishes Lucifer to Earth, yes, but he hides his brother's grace within hell’s depths, what’s really imprisoned behind the seals - something too bright, too sacred, and should never have been touched.

Michael is convinced that is the real reason why hell always burns.

When Michael returns to His ranks, God does not punish his transgressions. He simply turns the other cheek to his fit of rebellion, and this might be the biggest betrayal of all.

\----

The first thought that enters Michael’s thoughts when he opens his eyes is _Sam._

Not Lucifer, not brother. Just Sam.

He lies on the ground, staring up at the sky, and his second thought is _pain._ His grace pulses like an electric current twitching under his skin and through every muscle and bone. It fills him where before, there was a hollow emptiness, a piece of Dean that was always missing but could never be found.

His thoughts circle back to his brother. The name repeats like a mantra, _Sam Sam Sam,_ and Michael clutches a hand to his head, letting out a quiet groan. His head aches, and his entire body hurts. He has been human far too long. He wonders if Lucifer felt this way, too, when taking back his grace.

Michael pushes himself to his feet. He takes a deep breath he doesn't need, letting the air fill his lungs, before turning back towards the house. 

The moment Michael walks into the living room, Bobby takes one look at him, and closes his eyes. 

“Damn it,” he mutters. He opens his eyes again slowly. “So, you’re Michael,” he says, and briefly, Michael wonders how he knew. It occurs to him then, that this man has watched Sam and Dean grow up, knows them as well as their own father once did. Dean loves Bobby as he did John - as Michael loves his own Father.

Michael takes a slow step towards the other man. “I am.” Bobby nods, as if he didn’t already know.

Chuck's eyes widen in awe. Castiel regards him with no small amount of hesitance, unsure whether to avert his eyes or keep them trained on Michael. His gaze flickers from the walls to Michael’s face and back again. 

Michael recognizes his Father as soon as he lays eyes on Missouri Moseley. He wonders how he could not have known before, when he recognizes her so easily now.

But Dean is only human, after all. That was the whole point.

Castiel’s reverent gaze when he looks at Missouri says he’s known for quite a while. Bobby and Chuck do not seem to be aware, however, and Michael does not say anything to alert them. The situation is shaky enough without complicating things further.

Instead, he smirks, and Bobby stares. Michael puzzles at his expression, flipping through the extensive mental file in Dean's head until he recognizes it as one of surprise. Bobby stares at Michael as if he isn't quite what he expected.

Bobby shakes his head, expression giving way to one of grim determination. That Michael recognizes – angels are nothing if not determined. “Look, I'm not going to stand here and pretend that I can convince you to do something you don't want to do, because I get the feeling Dean's attitude is an inherited trait.”

“You’re not wrong,” Missouri mutters, but Bobby continues as if she hasn't interrupted.

"Angel or no angel, if you kill your brother, Dean will never survive. And I’ve got a hunch that you won’t either.”

“Lucifer could not kill me before," Michael says, "And he will not this time, either.”

But Bobby will not be deterred. “Just remember that for thirty years, you were human. No knowledge of destiny or a war that pre-dates the damn world. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

Michael almost disagrees once again, but he remembers being Dean - remembers the feel of Sam in his arms, this tiny, defenseless creature of whom he was granted possession and protection practically from birth.

He wonders if this was the plan all along, because this should have been easy, black and white, kill his brother or let the world burn. Yet, he no longer wishes to kill Lucifer. He wishes to _save_ him.

Well. This is an unforeseen turn of events.

“I remember,” Michael says softly, and Missouri smiles, a quick lift of her lips, there one moment and gone the next.

Bobby nods, lowering his gaze to his shoes. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “So, now what?”

Michael shrugs - a human gesture, one he falls back on much too easily. “Now, we save my brother.”

Bobby quickly raises his gaze, eyebrows receding under his cap. “You got a plan?”

“Not yet.” Michael offers him a small smile. “Give me time.”

\----

Night has fallen, stars already high in a dark sky when Michael steps back out onto Missouri’s porch. Chuck and Bobby sleep peacefully, Chuck on the couch, Bobby on a cot Missouri dragged up from the basement. Castiel stands across the room against the wall, staring deeply into a cup of tea. He glances up every so often to watch over them, a guardian angel in the truest sense of the word, keeping their dreams quiet and unplagued by nightmares. Michael’s lips twitch at the image.

The amulet around his neck does not burn when the back door opens as it might if Dean had held it in his palm. He feels his Father down to his bones, grace burning with the knowledge, but with relief comes another emotion, hot and overwhelming, strong enough to surpass all of the others. It makes him feel irrational, like he wants to lash out, scream and yell in a way he so often scolded Lucifer for once upon a time. The same as Dean scolded Sam. 

Only with thoughts of his brother does he finally put a word to the emotion - _betrayal._ Michael feels betrayed.

“You were here,” he says quietly, still staring out at the dark horizon. “The entire time, you were here, and you said nothing.”

“A lot has changed,” Missouri says, quiet and regretful, and Michael’s hands clench into fists at his sides, fingernails biting into his palms. Anger. This is what anger feels like.

“ _Nothing_ has changed,” he says roughly, finally turning to face Missouri, though he cannot bring himself to meet her gaze. “I abandoned my brother, sent him into exile, and that still was not enough for you.”

“Do you think I wanted this?” She tempers her voice in deference to the two men sleeping inside, though Michael knows this is not necessary – they will not wake if she does not wish them to. “Do you truly think that when the two of you walked into my house years ago that I wasn’t worried half to death that this would be the result?”

“Then stop them,” Michael whispers, “All of them.” 

“The garrison won't listen to me now any more than they will listen to you, and Lucifer would sooner try to kill me than give me the time of day.” She shakes her head. “You are the only one who can stop your brother, Michael. You and you alone.”

Michael bows his head, feeling - for possibly the first time in his entire existence - helpless. This is an emotion he recognizes, yanking it from Dean’s memories - selling his soul to save his brother, watching Sam slam the door and leave for Stanford without ever looking back, Sam’s blood on his hands on the ground on a cold night in the middle of nowhere.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says. He doesn’t know how humans survive this, these feelings rising up, overwhelming and uncontrollable, day after day after day. He feels like he’s being ripped to shreds. 

Missouri reaches out a hand, squeezing his shoulder, and the touch feels foreign and familiar all at once. “What are you afraid of, Michael?” she asks softly. “Losing? Or losing your brother?”

Michael stares at the ground. He does not have an answer to that.

\----

What was the saying? Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.

Michael is not a sailor, and neither was Dean, but the advice still stands. The radio blares with emergency alerts, strange occurrences that expand far past Kansas - rain falling from a sky the crimson red of blood, earthquakes in multiple cities across the globe, wildfires on the west coast and a cyclone along the east.

Of particular interest to the local weather men is the unseasonably cold weather in Lawrence, twenty degrees below normal with no sign of warming, and the electrical storms centered solely in the area surrounding Stull Cemetery.

Michael smiles. Lucifer always had a flare for the theatrics.

“Well,” Bobby says as he turns the volume on the radio down, “guess we don’t have to look for your brother.”

“No, I suppose we do not,” Michael agrees.

Bobby scratches at the back of his neck, bends the brim of his cap inwards, and refuses to meet Michael’s gaze. “So I guess that means we’re going to Stull.”

The order flies from Michael's mouth without thought. “ _We_ are doing nothing. _You_ are staying here.”

“Now wait just a damned minute.” Bobby moves to stand in front of the door. “What exactly do you intend to do?”

Michael allows him to block the exit, stepping back with his arms crossed though he could simply leave without use of the door at all. Funny things, humans - they seem to enjoy the simple illusion of being in control. “I have no intentions to do anything but find my brother.”

“And then what? Kill him? Do you really expect him to give in so easily? I’m not standing back and -”

“Yes, you are.” Michael presses a finger to Bobby’s forehead, and the other man’s knees buckle as he falls to the floor. Michael catches him easily and carries him to the couch. He does the same to Chuck, just to be safe. 

“Do not let them out of your sight,” he instructs Castiel.

“Michael.” Castiel’s fingers on his arm are tighter and more insistent than Bobby’s, but he drops his hand faster. Michael feels the weakening in Castiel’s grace with that touch, aware of the sacrifices he made in his quest to aid the Winchesters. His stomach twists with a strange sensation that he belatedly recognizes as guilt, but that emotion must be Dean’s, a memory left behind. It cannot be his own.

Michael regrets nothing.

“Bobby is right. You can’t do this.”

Michael arches an eyebrow, a perfect mockery of the annoyed expression that so often crossed Dean’s face. “Do you presume to tell me what I can and cannot do?” 

Castiel looks fittingly chastised. He winces, and Michael sighs, schooling his features into an expression of bland ignorance. He turns to Missouri, a subtle but instinctive glance.

She crosses her arms over her chest, eyes shuttered and dark, revealing nothing. The expression does nothing to quell the knot of worry coiling in his stomach, slowly tightening until he can no longer ignore it's presence. “Don’t look at me. No one listens to me anyway.”

“This is the only way,” Michael says, wondering who, exactly, he is trying to convince, Castiel, Missouri or himself. “I will not make the same mistake twice.”

“I know,” Castiel whispers quietly, “but Dean was my friend. As was Sam.”

Michael’s patience quickly grows thin. “What would you have me do?”

Castiel’s eyes shine bright in the lamplight. He glances at Missouri warily, but does not back down. “You gave yourself over wholly to serve God and His angels. To follow His will and His word alone-“

“As swiftly and obediently as I did my father’s. I remember Dean’s promise, but do not see it’s relevance. Make your point, Castiel.” He almost does not recognize the demanding voice that comes out of his mouth, so different from that of Dean, tinged with power and the knowledge earned in thousands of years of leading the armies of heaven.

“Free will, Michael,” Castiel says softly. “Children disobey their parents – it is only natural. You are an angel, but Dean was raised human. You are the only one of us who can make that choice.”

\----

The sun is high in the sky by the time Michael arrives at Stull.

The rain still pours down, drenching Michael to the bone, but the sun shines through the clouds, bright behind his eyelids.

Lucifer leans against a headstone with his arms folded over his chest, legs crossed at the ankle, the picture of ease. He still wears Sam’s clothes, looking exactly the same as the moment he turned from the convent. The sight of him makes something in Michael’s chest wrench like a hand squeezing his heart.

An expression flashes across Lucifer’s face, there one moment, gone the next, so quickly that Michael is still puzzling over it when Lucifer uncrosses his ankles and steps forward.

“It’s been a long time, brother,” he says as he approaches, and Michael bites back a smile.

“Not so long.”

Lucifer grins outright, sharp and bitter and not the least bit happy. “No, I suppose not long at all.” His smile dims as the gravity of the situation settles over them both. Only one of them will survive this encounter. 

“We don't have to do this, you know,” Lucifer says, and Michael falters, uncertain and unsteady in a way only Lucifer could ever make him feel. “We could turn our backs. Disappear. The world would continue turning, and no one would be the wiser.”

“Lucifer-”

_“Michael,”_ Lucifer cuts him off swiftly, and Michael's teeth snap together in frustration. “Our Father once ordered you to destroy me, did he not? And yet here I stand, alive and well. I disobeyed, and I was banished. You disobeyed, and... nothing. Not even a slap on the wrist. I was forced to fall, but you fell on your own." He steps forward, pressing a hand to Michael's shoulder. "Leave with me, Michael. This time, we'll fall together.”

Michael steps backwards, ripping his shoulder from Lucifer's grasp. “A thousand years among the humans, and you have learned nothing, have you, brother? This is no one's fault but your own.”

That same expression passes over Lucifer's face, but Michael recognizes grief this time, painful and all-consuming. “Michael -”

_“No.”_

Lucifer pauses, expression growing shadowed and grim. He shrugs, hands open in a mocked gesture of peace. “Then there's nothing left to say. Che sera sera.”

The punch flies out of nowhere, sending Michael to the ground. He stares up into Lucifer's face, devoid of any emotion but a fierce determination, and Michael swings himself to his feet, punching Lucifer across his jaw. Michael ducks another punch and instead sends his brother slamming backwards against a headstone hard enough that it cracks. He grunts, immediately rising, fist catching Michael first in the sternum, then at the corner of his eye.

They could tear each other apart without batting an eye, probably bring the world to it's knees at the same time. Instead, Michael's fist collides against Lucifer's cheek with a solid crack. Lucifer's boot crashes into his rib cage, snapping bone. 

This is thousands of years worth of pent up anger and frustration finally exploding out in a flurry of pummeling fists. This is physical. This is personal.

Michael flips Lucifer to the ground, pinning him there with his full body weight, both hands tight around his neck. Lucifer clenches his fingers into a fist, and Michael braces himself for the hit - 

That never comes. Lucifer drops his hand to his side, going completely limp, deceptively docile.

“Looks like you won,” he rasps. Michael raises one arm and pauses with his hand in the air, fighting the urge to look away as he makes the killing blow. 

When Michael looks into Lucifer’s eyes, he doesn't see his brother. He sees Sam - a baby in a burning crib, held in his arms, a child running towards him with chubby arms outstretched, tongue sticking out while he learns to tie his shoes, the weight of his arms while he learns to shoot, a smile, a hug, tears and laughter. Twenty-six years worth of memories flow through his mind until only one remains, but this one does not belong to Dean.

The day God disappears, Azazel makes a deal with Mary Campbell for John Winchester's life. Zachariah declares war with the mutinous garrison at his back. 

Michael has watched Lucifer over the passing years, found him in every one of his incarnations across the globe, fought the urge to reveal himself, despite the fact that Lucifer would never recognize the stranger for his brother. They will destroy all hope of Michael ever seeing Lucifer again, alive and whole.

The decision is made before Michael takes a moment to stop and think. He rips out his grace. He falls.

\----

Michael releases Lucifer with a gasp, hands dropping from his brother's throat as he falls to his knees.

“Lucifer...” he whispers. He tries to express a million things as he says his brother's name, apologies and explanations all rolled up in a single word.

Lucifer leans forward, gripping Michael’s shirt and pressing his forehead to his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and Michael closes his eyes.

A searing heat flashes across his eyelids, and Michael’s eyes snap open. Lucifer reaches into his own chest and _pulls_. His grace is a bright light in his hands, a shining thing too bright for human eyes, brighter than most angels. 

Lucifer’s nickname is the Morning Star for a reason. He always burned the brightest.

“Destroy it, Dean,” Lucifer whispers before collapsing into his brother’s arms. Dean - not Michael, but Dean, the name of the human he was, Mary and John Winchester's son. When Michael looks in his brother’s eyes, he sees only Sam.

Michael holds Sam’s life in one hand and Lucifer's grace in the other. He needs to destroy his brother's grace - those were his orders, and it’s what Lucifer wants.

_Save Sam or kill him._ Dean was right - there was never a choice, really.

Anna was wrong - removing his grace doesn’t feel like someone cutting out his kidney with a butter knife, but with a toothpick, lit by a flame so his entire body burns like it’s on fire, like he’s dying, slowly and painfully. Michael closes his eyes, infinitely falling, hurtling down towards earth - 

Dean comes to on a motel bed, fully human and fully healed. He opens his eyes with caution, expecting pain to flare up along his bones and surprised to find none. He turns his head, staring at the body on the opposite bed.

Sam lays on his back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling slow and steady in sleep. Dean swallows, because he’s too damn quiet, too damn still. For a brief, terrifying moment, he wonders if Michael destroyed his brother after all.

“He’ll wake in his own time,” Missouri says, and Dean sits up quickly, turning in the direction of her voice.

Missouri gives him a genuine but smile. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean swallows. “Hello,” he rasps, then attempts to clear his throat. He stares at Missouri, truly stares, but she looks the same as she ever did – no one ancient and all powerful, just yet another normal person who happened to know the truth about what really lurked in the dark. He does not see what Michael experienced through his eyes, though that same burst of familiarity flares up his spine.

“A lot of mistakes have been made over the years, Dean,” Missouri says, quietly serious. “Some of them were mine.”

Dean blinks back shock, and Missouri smirks. “What? No one’s perfect. Not even God, contrary to popular belief.”

She reaches out and twists the amulet around his neck between her fingers. A lick of heat flares against his chest. “I gave this to Bobby years ago. Told him it would be a good present for one of you boys to give your father.” She lets go, so the amulet rests heavy but familiar against his breastbone. “I always knew it would make it's way back to you.” She glances at Sam before turning her gaze back to Dean, open and honest. “I don't often get the chance to actually say I told you so – but I told you so.”

Guilt wells hot and thick, twisting his stomach into knots. He doesn’t understand, the emotion something Michael left behind, and he swallows past the lump in his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, and he bows his head.

Missouri kisses his forehead. “There is nothing to forgive.”

\----

The eyes that closed belonged to Lucifer. The ones that open belong to Sam.

Sam's eyelids flutter, opening to stare at the white ceiling. Dean watches as he takes in his surroundings - the dingy, floral motel room wallpaper, the water-stained carpet. His eyes quickly swing from the empty double bed beside him to Dean, sitting in the chair next to his bed, hands clasped tightly in his lap.

"Sam," Dean whispers, leaning forward. His amulet catches the sun, casting a shadow across the sheets, and Sam stills.

Dean could not destroy something so beautiful - nothing changed in two thousand years. The amulet around his neck burns with the weight of their combined grace, two bright, shining forces tucked away, hidden in something as seemingly insignificant as a necklace.

Michael chose Sam, but Dean saved this.

Sam reaches out; his fingers hover along the surface of the amulet before he slowly pulls his hand back. “Why?” He pleads hoarsely. 

“Because we’re not just Lucifer and Michael anymore. I’m still Dean. And you’re still Sam.”

Sam swallows, and tears well up in his eyes.

Dean presses his forehead to his brother’s and whispers, “This time, we fell together.”

_But I'm going to grow wings and sing,  
"Amen, I'm checking out."_

**Author's Note:**

> Extended notes and art links can be found here: http://aseagulliniowa.livejournal.com/69529.html


End file.
